


What Is To Come

by missazrael



Series: Heats [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A/B/O, Biting, Breeding, Come Inflation, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other, Scent Marking, Threesome - M/M/M, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Marco,” and his voice is pleasant, in control, “get away from that bunk, please.”  The request is polite enough but thick with threatened, primal violence, and to his credit, Marco stands his ground for a few moments, watching Reiner with narrowed eyes, subtly putting himself between the tall cadet and Jean.  Bertolt watches this little development with interest, wondering how things will be affected later when Marco comes into his own, but then Jean lifts a hand and pushes on Marco’s chest.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“It’s fine,” he rasps, and lifts up onto his elbows, tilting his head back and inhaling through his nose, drawing in the alpha scent rolling off Reiner.  “It’s okay, Marco.”</i></p><p> </p><p>First heats are awful, or so everyone says.  Bertolt knows that his own first heat had been pretty bad, but at least he'd had Reiner to help him get through it.  Jean is the first omega to hit his heat cycle, though, and someone needs to do something about it before he drives everyone mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is To Come

The air in the barracks is thick and heavy, pungent with pheromones and expectations. Jean is curled on his bunk, his arms and legs wrapped tightly around himself, tended to by a fretful Marco who knows what his friend needs but can’t do a thing to help him. It’s a shame, Bertolt thinks, sitting on his top bunk and observing, his long legs dangling over the sides, that Marco hadn’t matured at the same rate Jean had. It would be an easy thing, then, for the two of them to come together and satisfy each other’s needs, but Marco is still, despite his height and heft, lagging behind. Everyone is fairly sure he’ll be an alpha, and then Jean won’t be in this predicament, but until Marco catches up to his best friend, there’s little he can do to make Jean’s anguish go away. What Jean needs is an actual alpha, one that’s fully developed and realized, one who can knot him and relieve the aching pressure in his guts.

Bertolt can wait. He knows how this is going to play out.

Marco fusses and Jean whines, the sound of their voices rising to Bertolt’s ears, muffled and indistinct. He sympathizes, he really does; he remembers what it had been like, being gripped by such a powerful force, something so outside your own control. He remembers the ache and the fear, the simple, overwhelming _need_ , and how it grew and grew in his mind until it blotted out everything else. It had been terrifying, thinking that he might lose control, thinking of what might come bursting out if he let loose, and if it hadn’t been for Reiner, things would have gone much, much worse.

At least Jean doesn’t have to worry about a warrior bursting through his skin.

Bertolt’s bunk shakes underneath him, and he looks over to see Connie clamoring up the side. Connie’s a beta, the scents and sounds of an omega in heat won’t bother him that much, and Bertolt relaxes as Connie comes over to sit beside him.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” he observes, peering over the edge at the bunk where Marco keeps helplessly stroking his hands through Jean’s sweat-damp hair, and Bertolt has to admire the smaller boy’s way of getting right to the heart of the issue. “I always thought it’d be Marco, you know? That he’d be the one to take care of Jean.”

Bertolt makes a soft noise of agreement, and Connie, bolstered, continues. “He can’t just wait it out, right? I mean, he _can_ , but why should he? Hey,” he leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carries no less than his regular tone, “it doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Jean, fortunately, saves Bertolt from having to reply. “I can _hear_ you, you know!” he snaps, rolling over on his side and glaring up at Connie with wild, semi-feral eyes. “I don’t need your shit right now, Springer, so shut it!” His gaze falls on Bertolt for a moment, golden eyes narrowed and considering, before he rolls back over, turning his back to them. Marco glances up, apologetic, before leaning over Jean again and trying to soothe him.

“No,” Bertolt tells Connie, his tone quiet and measured, “it doesn’t bother me.”

“You sure?” Connie’s never been the smartest cadet, but he has an annoying, unerring sense for people, and he turns his bright, inquisitive eyes on Bertolt, and Bertolt has a moment of wishing he could shove Connie off the bunk, letting him shatter against the floor. “You’re sweating more than usual, and…”

Bertolt is about to cut him off, about to interrupt and possibly ruin everything—the pheromones in the barracks are going to his head, making it swim, and everything feels itchy and close to the surface, as though his warrior could come surging out at any moment—when the door to the barracks swings open and Reiner enters, his broad shoulders blocking out the last of the late afternoon sunshine. Everyone falls quiet, a hush settling among them, and Connie skitters away from Bertolt, moving to the edge of the bunk, close to the ladder.

Reiner, who had gone through the change before anyone else; Reiner, who everyone had known would be an alpha and who had not disappointed; Reiner, who everyone looks to now with hope and desperation writ all over their faces, and Bertolt has to swallow down the bile that rises in the back of his throat. Eren, standing close to the door, shies away from him, not in heat himself but as affected as the rest of them by the pheromones coming off Jean in waves. Reiner hardly notices; his attention is riveted on the bunk with Jean and Marco, his eyes intent as he sniffs the air.

“Marco,” and his voice is pleasant, in control, “get away from that bunk, please.” The request is polite enough but thick with threatened, primal violence, and to his credit, Marco stands his ground for a few moments, watching Reiner with narrowed eyes, subtly putting himself between the tall cadet and Jean. Bertolt watches this little development with interest, wondering how things will be affected later when Marco comes into his own, but then Jean lifts a hand and pushes on Marco’s chest.

“It’s fine,” he rasps, and lifts up onto his elbows, tilting his head back and inhaling through his nose, drawing in the alpha scent rolling off Reiner. “It’s okay, Marco.”

Marco glances down at his friend, then back at Reiner. His upper lip curls over his teeth, and Bertolt wonders if Marco is even aware what he’s doing. “Don’t hurt him, Reiner. You make it as good for him as you can, okay?”

Reiner nods agreeably, and Marco runs his hand over the side of Jean’s face, the touch a caress, before he gets up and melts into the shadows, leaving the barracks through the back door. They’ll be mates someday, Marco and Jean, and Bertolt wonders how many heats they’ll have together before everything comes crashing down around them. He hopes they get at least a few.

Reiner moves into the room now, his tread purposeful and heavy, scattering other cadets in his wake. He only has eyes for Jean, and Jean watches him advance, tilting his head to expose his neck, the breath in his throat quickening. Reiner’s fast, faster than someone his size has any right to be, and he’s almost to the bunk before Bertolt makes his move.

He slides off the top bunk in one smooth, fluid motion, landing heavily, deliberately, and both Reiner and Jean turn to look at him. Jean’s face is bright with expectation while Reiner’s draws closed, and Bertolt strides across the room towards them, his long legs eating up the space between them in the now-silent barracks.

Bertolt stops when he’s a few feet away from Reiner, chest to chest with him, and Reiner turns towards him. The two alphas face each other, and the entire barracks seems to hold its breath.

Reiner’s mouth is tight over his teeth, fighting against baring them, and Bertolt remembers Reiner’s first heat. He remembers Reiner’s pain and confusion, the way he’d fought so hard against hormones and instinctual urges that he couldn’t control, and had eventually fled into the woods around the encampment. Bertolt had followed him, tracking his progress through the woods—it hadn’t been hard, Reiner had moved through like an enraged bull, marking his path clearly—and found Reiner in a clearing, leaning against a tree. He’d been clawing at his forearms, gashing them open with his nails, and they’d been steaming merrily away, healing, the rising fog hiding Reiner’s face.

“Go away,” Reiner had told him, and Bertolt hadn’t listened, stepping into the clearing. He’d figured out what was happening by then, and thought he could help. He hadn’t realized that he smelled like another alpha, not until Reiner had charged forward and caught him by the throat, pinning him up against a tree. Bertolt had dangled, his toes brushing against the ground, and felt his breath and his world squeeze down to a pinprick. For a moment, he’d considered just… stopping. Just letting Reiner do what he had to do—fights and even death between alphas weren’t uncommon, although they were frowned upon—and he’d closed his eyes.

A moment later, Reiner had dropped him, and Bertolt’s throat had burned as Reiner clung to him and sobbed, taken over for the first time by something he couldn’t control. They’d knotted for the first time in that clearing, with Bertolt’s throat aching and Reiner’s arms clawed open again by Bertolt’s fingers, and then steamed together as they clung to each other’s bodies and healed. When Bertolt hit his own heat a few weeks later—brought on, perhaps, by Reiner’s pheromones and their repeated knottings until his heat had passed—Reiner had submitted to him, in the same clearing, and Bertolt had gnawed on the back of his neck until he broke the skin under his teeth and his mouth filled with steam.

Others had come into their own after that, but mostly on the female side of the barracks, which meant they could be avoided. Eren is the first and, until now, only omega in the boy’s barracks, and he’d been claimed so vehemently and obviously by Mikasa that there hadn’t been a chance to get too riled up by his pheromones, although Reiner had dragged Bertolt behind the canteen and kissed his neck raw. Bertolt hadn’t minded; he’d given as good as he’d gotten, and Reiner had had to heal clawed scratches all down his broad back. But Jean is the first omega to emerge without a clear mate, without an alpha of his own—someday, it will be Marco, but not yet, not until Marco is physically able to claim him—and none of them are getting any rest until this is dealt with.

The question remains, though… by whom?

Reiner watches Bertolt through heavily-lidded eyes, his pose and the way he holds his arms out at his sides belying any false sense of calm he tries to project. Bertolt knows Reiner better than anyone, knows him better than he knows himself, and he can practically see the tension radiating off him in waves, billowing towards him the same way pheromones leak off Jean. It’s a heady cocktail, one that speaks of violence and subjugation, and Bertolt realizes that he’s smiling.

“Reiner,” he says, his voice pleasant, pitched low. It rings through the silent barracks.

“Bertolt.” Reiner is equally cordial, although his hands clench into fists at his sides, the veins standing out in his forearms. 

Jean watches them both, his eyes darting back and forth, glittering, and he starts to pant, open-mouthed. He knows this is all about him, and Bertolt isn’t surprised that part of him is reveling in it. Jean has always wanted to be needed, always wanted to belong, no matter how hard he tries to deny that basic truth about himself, and he’s simply fortunate that most everyone else is too caught up in their own lives to see it. Bertolt sees it, though. Bertolt knows.

Reiner swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and Bertolt remembers it between his teeth, remembers sucking a dark bruise over Reiner’s pulse point. If this were anyone but Reiner, he would have attacked by now, would have given in to the urges flooding his bloodstream, the undeniable, atavistic drive controlling him. But he loves Reiner, loves him more than anyone else in this whole sorry world, and he won’t attack him.

But neither will he stand down.

The moment stretches, elongates, filled only with the sound of Jean panting, and it feels like they might end up standing here forever, until everything around them crumbles away to dust.

It takes Eren to snap them all out of it.

“Have fun with this, Ponyboy!” he says, his voice loud and gleeful, cracking and resounding through the barracks. He knows that he’s not the one who has caught the attention of the alphas, and his constant, simmering tension and competition with Jean has lost the battle against common sense. 

Reiner twitches, his hands opening and closing again in fists, but it’s Bertolt who turns around to face the shorter man. He looms over Eren, towers over him, and, realizing his error too late, Eren shrinks away. Bertolt realizes how his smile has grown, how his lips are stretched back over his teeth, showing all of them in a death’s head rictus.

“Eren,” he says, and his voice is a growling rasp. “ _Run_.”

Eren doesn’t need to be told twice; he turns and flees, Armin trailing after him, bursting through the barrack’s door and out into the night. Perhaps he’ll meet up with Marco and they’ll spend the night in the same place, though for very different reasons.

Someone touches Bertolt’s elbow, and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know it’s Reiner. He recognizes the way Reiner fills his personal space, the heat and bulk of Reiner’s body a comforting presence, and he relaxes a fraction. Reiner leans up, his mouth next to Bertolt’s ear, and whispers, “Close your mouth, warrior. You’re showing your teeth.”

Bertolt pulls his lips down over his teeth, grimacing as his face resumes a more natural position; Eren has seen his warrior, and if Bertolt is showing his teeth, it might stir an association in the back of Eren’s mind. He can’t, and he won’t, be responsible for revealing them, not over something as foolish as an omega in heat.

Reiner’s hand lingers, and his lips near Bertolt’s ear shape themselves into a kiss, into a caress. Bertolt closes his eyes, and imagines, just for a moment, that it’s Reiner, his Reiner, releasing those omega pheromones and begging him for release. He leans into the other man’s bulk, relaxing against a scent that, now and always, reminds him of home, and feel Reiner link his arms around his waist.

“Share?” Reiner asks, and the word conjures up a thousand images in Bertolt’s mind, a thousand connotations: Reiner as a child, offering him part of his meal; Reiner with scars etched across his cheeks, burn marks from his warrior, encouraging Bertolt as he heals from falling off his warrior’s shoulder; Reiner letting Bertolt curl against him during the night, so he doesn’t see the images of Armored Titan effigies, beaten to stuffing and set aflame, behind his eyelids. They’ve always shared everything, they’ve always felt like one heart beating in two bodies. This shouldn’t be any different.

“Share,” he agrees, and Bertolt feels Reiner’s lips curl into a smile against his ear.

Reiner lets him go, and they turn together, towards Jean’s bed. Jean eyes them both, looking worried for the first time, and he brings his knees, formally sprawled out shamelessly, together. There’s no mistaking the lust in his eyes, though, especially not when Reiner drops down beside the bed and reaches for him, pulling him out from under the bunk. Jean makes a startled noise of protest, but comes along willingly enough, his legs tangled with blankets and his hair mussed, despite the smoothing efforts of Marco’s fingers. He stumbles a little as he stands, but it doesn’t matter: Reiner ducks underneath him and rises effortlessly, Jean slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“What the fuck!” Jean beats on Reiner’s back with closed fists, squirming frantically. “Put me down!”

Reiner just laughs, and Bertolt knows why; he can smell Jean too, can smell how Reiner’s proximity is exciting him, and they all know that if Jean were in actual distress Reiner would put him down. Instead, Reiner carries Jean to the bunk he shares with Bertolt, and Bertolt follows them, reaching out to grab Jean’s wrists and keep him from swinging too wildly and overbalancing. Jean glances up at him, his eyes wild and feral under his shaggy hair, and Bertolt ducks in. It’s not a kiss so much as it’s two pairs of lips crashing together, and he feels Jean shift forward, drawing towards him, torn between two alphas and wanting them both. Jean’s mouth is hot and wet under his own, his lips curling and making little snarling sounds, and Bertolt nips at his lower lip to silence him, catching it between his teeth and tugging it forward.

It’s over too soon, over when Reiner tosses Jean up on the bunk and then looks back at Bertolt, grinning wildly. Bertolt brings a hand to his mouth, touching lips swollen and chafed from Jean’s, and curls his upper lip at Reiner. Their love for each other notwithstanding, Reiner is still another alpha, and instincts prevail sometimes over cooler heads. Reiner’s cheeky grin catches Bertolt’s attention, ensnares it, and for a moment he’s wildly jealous. How dare Reiner assume that all the omegas will want him, how dare he think he can lay claim to someone who could just as easily be Bertolt’s? 

Bertolt surges forward, knocking his chest against Reiner’s and pushing him back. Reiner’s knees buckles and he falls onto the lower bunk, Bertolt on top of him, snarling and furious, snapping his teeth in his face. Reiner’s hands fly up to grapple with him, clamping down on Bertolt’s wrists hard enough to grind the bones together, and neither of them is quite powerful enough to take down the other. They snap at each other’s face, their growls echoing and reverberating in the enclosed space of the bunk, and Bertolt wedges a leg between Reiner’s thighs and presses it hard up against Reiner’s groin, rubbing against the swelling there, and the friction of his own cock scraping along Reiner’s belly is enough to make him see stars. 

Reiner’s teeth click closed near Bertolt’s face, and just as soon as their fight started it’s over, with Bertolt bearing down on top of Reiner and forcing his tongue into Reiner’s mouth. Reiner groans around it before sucking on it eagerly, letting go of Bertolt’s wrists to clutch at his face, holding it in position while he ravages Bertolt’s mouth. With a grunt, Reiner flips them over, positioning himself above Bertolt, and Bertolt is too caught up in the moment to mind that another alpha is on top of him. He pushes his hands under Reiner’s shirt and drags his blunt nails down Reiner’s broad back, knowing that he’s leaving behind red lines and scoring up his skin, and knowing that Reiner will leave those scratches to heal naturally, wearing them like a badge of honor.

“Hey!” Jean is leaning over the edge of the top bunk, looking flustered and aroused and entirely put out. “You going to bang each other down there or what?” There’s a high-pitched, nervous keen to his voice, like he’s unsure whether he wants to watch them maul each other or come up there and maul him.

Reiner lifts his head to look back at Jean, and Bertolt takes advantage of the moment, leaning up to nip at Reiner’s neck and suck a quick, dark bruise there. For all his bulk and heft, Reiner has always bruised surprisingly easily, and Bertolt likes seeing evidence that he’s been there, that he’d been the one to break through Reiner’s armor and get to his soft insides. Reiner turns and looks back down at him, smiling, and the spot on his neck steams quickly and heals.

“His highness awaits,” he says, and climbs off Bertolt, offering a hand to pull him up and onto his feet. Bertolt smiles up at him, the shy, sweet little smile that only Reiner ever gets the privilege of seeing, and takes his hand, letting Reiner pull him to his feet. They look each other in the eye for a moment, and something passes between them, some understanding that’s beyond words, beyond language, something deep and primordial and ancient. Then Reiner grins again and turns to the bunk, laying his hands flat on the top bunk and hoisting himself up, pulling his legs over and onto it with the strength in his arms only. 

Connie practically explodes off the far end of the bunk, scrambling down and beating a fast retreat while barely touching the floor, and Bertolt shakes his head in bemusement. He takes his time, aware of all the eyes on him and for once not caring, as he climbs up the ladder and into the bunk, kicking off his boots as he goes.

Reiner is already on top of Jean, pinning him down under his broad chest and worrying his neck with his teeth. Jean has his hands on Reiner’s shoulders, and while he’s making a show of trying to push Reiner away, the pheromones coming off him tell another story, and saliva floods Bertolt’s mouth. He pauses at the edge of the bed to strip off his shirt—more for Reiner’s benefit than Jean’s, he knows Reiner likes looking at him when he’s shirtless—and edges closer. Reiner glances over at him, his lip starting to curl in a snarl, but then his eyes clear and he shifts, rolling over onto his side, pulling Jean with him. Jean gasps and squirms, but Reiner has a good grip on him, and he ends on his side, facing Bertolt.

Bertolt moves closer, pushing his legs out along the bunk, and he’s about to lie down when he catches a glimpse at Jean’s face and pauses. Jean’s expression is set in determination, his jaw clenched even as he moves his head to let Reiner get at his neck, but there’s fear glittering deep in his eyes, pushed down and denied, ignored in the face of what he’s about to do. Bertolt is intimately familiar with fear, knowing it as his life’s constant companion, and for all that Jean is an insufferable, boisterous jackass most of the time, Bertolt doesn’t want him to be afraid.

“Hey,” he says quietly, laying down across from Jean, and Jean looks up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. He must see something he recognizes there, because Jean’s tough guy face softens a little.

“Hey,” Jean answers, his voice a much softened version of his usual nasal bray. His eyes comb over Bertolt’s face, and he must like what he sees there, because he reaches out with one hand, the fingers only trembling a little. Bertolt takes it, threading Jean’s slender, artist fingers through his own broader, calloused ones, and scoots a little closer when Jean squeezes his hand in a grip that’s faintly panicky. 

“It’s okay,” Bertolt tells him softly, ignoring the sounds Reiner is making behind Jean’s head. “It doesn't hurt that much. It even feels good after awhile.” He figures there’s nothing wrong with embellishing the truth a little; Reiner’s knot had never felt good to him, and while Reiner had seemed to enjoy his, Bertolt was pretty sure he was faking for Bertolt’s sake. Maybe it’s different with omegas, maybe they’re designed internally to take a knot.

Jean’s jaw tightens a little, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not _scared_ ,” he says scathingly, but he doesn’t let go of Bertolt’s hand, and when Reiner bites down on the side of his neck, Jean jumps and shifts closer to Bertolt.

“I know.” Bertolt knows all about what it’s like to pretend to be brave until you are.

Jean looks at him searchingly, like he’s not sure he believes what he’s being told, but then Reiner finds one of the scent glands on Jean’s neck and gets it between his teeth, squeezing it gently, and Jean’s eyes flutter shut as he moans. Bertolt watches as Jean tilts his head, stretching out the full length of his neck, the cords and tendons pulling taut under his pale skin, already blooming with bruises from Reiner’s mouth, and Bertolt has to swallow a mouthful of saliva. He leans in and kisses the front of Jean’s throat, working the spots Reiner can’t reach, and when Jean pulls on his hand, Bertolt moves closer easily.

Jean is slender and fragile against him, almost frail compared to Reiner’s bulk. As Bertolt settles himself against Jean’s chest, he realizes how much he dwarfs the other man, how he and Reiner completely enfold Jean’s form, and he feels a faint pang of understanding in his chest. Not only does Bertolt understand fear, but he understands feeling like you’re being subsumed, like you can’t possibly stay yourself when you’re surrounded by another, and his mouth is gentle across Jean’s throat. He feels Jean groan before he hears it, a little rumbling vibration underneath his lips, and then Jean is stroking one hand through Bertolt’s hair, and that’s okay. That’s just fine.

Bertolt works his way up, trailing along Jean’s windpipe and then over the curve of his jawline, but he avoids kissing him. That’s for mates, and Jean doesn’t press the issue, perhaps relieved that Bertolt isn’t insisting on it. He nuzzles shyly at Bertolt’s ear when it gets close enough, and Bertolt snorts softly against Jean’s jawline, his skin prickling ticklishly. Jean slowly relaxes against Bertolt’s chest, his icy demeanor melting against the heat of Bertolt’s skin, and Bertolt wraps an arm around Jean’s waist as he presses closer, the line of Jean’s torso flush against his own.

Bertolt realizes they’re being watched, and looks up to meet Reiner’s eyes. Reiner’s mouthing slowly at the back of Jean’s neck, but his attention is on Bertolt, and his golden eyes are glowing. Bertolt feels his mouth quirk into a tiny, knowing little smile, and Reiner grins, showing all his teeth, before ducking his head back down and biting Jean on the shoulder. Jean yelps, and the scent of pheromones floods Bertolt’s nose. He growls at Reiner, unable to help himself, and pulls Jean closer, the gesture almost protective. Reiner lifts his head, his eyes narrowed, and Bertolt can feel Reiner’s growl, reverberating all the way through Jean.

“Fuck…” Surprisingly, it’s Jean who speaks up, and both Bertolt and Reiner pause, their snarls dying on their lips. They both look down at him, and Jean’s eyes are dazed, the pupils dilated wide, only a thin rim of whiskey gold around his enormous black pupils. “Stop fighting with each other and just _fuck me_ already!” He wiggles between them for emphasis, pushing his ass back against Reiner’s hips and pawing ineffectively at Bertolt’s chest. “It _hurts_ , make it stop!”

Bertolt realizes, dimly, that omegas must really be different internally, if their heats hurt until they’ve been knotted. His own heat had been confusing and frustrating and turned him into someone he barely recognized, but it had never been painful. The thought that they’ve been fooling around and leaving Jean in pain fills him with shame, and he whispers an apology against Jean’s throat, trying to kiss away at least some of the hurt.

Reiner is, as always, much more practical, and sits up with a grunt. In one smooth movement, he takes his shirt off, and Bertolt can’t help sneaking a glance at his broad chest and the lines through his shoulders. He remembers the taste of Reiner under his teeth, the way his skin bruises like a piece of fruit too long on the tree, and Bertolt has to forcibly drag his attention back to Jean as Reiner starts to fumble with his belt.

Bertolt pushes himself up and then helps Jean sit up, running his hands down Jean’s sides before taking hold of his shirt and helping him lift it over his head. He can feel Jean tremble under his touch, but he lifts his arms willingly, looking at Bertolt with defiance in his eyes once his shirt is gone. Jean is all lean lines and flat planes, the strength Bertolt knows is there hidden by his slight frame. He’s nothing like Reiner, and nothing like Bertolt either, but there’s something attractive about him all the same, something delicate and sensuous that neither of them have. Bertolt runs a hand down his narrow chest, over the maneuver gear scars on his skin, and down to the trail of downy golden hair that starts at Jean’s navel and disappears into the waistband of his pants. 

He wonders if Annie’s hair down below is the same color.

Jean watches Bertolt’s hand move and shivers, reaching out with hands that only tremble a little and trying to undo Bertolt’s belt. He manages to get the buckle undone and the tab starting through it before Reiner snakes his arms around Jean’s waist and starts pawing at Jean’s belt, and Jean leans back against him, his eyes fluttering closed. Bertolt catches a glimpse of Reiner’s side, naked and exposed, before taking off his pants on his own and setting them aside.

Reiner has never had a great deal of finesse in anything he does, and he doesn’t bother to unbutton the fly of Jean’s pants, choosing instead to shove them over his hips as soon as he gets the belt loosened. Jean hisses as the fabric drags over his erection before freeing it, and Bertolt can’t help getting an eyeful. He’s seen Jean naked before, in the showers and around the barracks, but never like this, panting and flushed and wanting, and he growls deep in his throat before advancing on him.

Jean’s eyes are blurry with lust when he opens them, but they widen in shock when he looks between Bertolt’s legs, and then Jean is scrambling backwards, pushing himself against Reiner’s chest and shaking his head. “No no _no_ , I’m not taking that, gods-fucking- _damn_ , NO!”

Reiner looks up, meets Bertolt’s eyes for a split second, and promptly dissolves into laughter. Giggling helplessly, he wraps both arms around Jean’s waist, as if to keep him from escaping or from hurting himself. “It feels amazing when it’s inside you,” he murmurs into Jean’s ear between giggles. “I know it looks scary, but trust me, you want to ride that.”

Jean stops squirming, but he shakes his head as he looks at Bertolt’s cock, and Bertolt can’t blame him. He can feel a flush rising on his cheeks, and he hangs his head, momentarily embarrassed. All he can smell right now are Jean’s fear pheromones, and while that gets some alphas riled up, it leaves him completely cold, his erection starting to wilt. “Reiner can go first.”

“See?” Reiner mouths at the side of Jean’s neck, gentle now, no longer biting. “I’m not as big as he is. It’ll be okay.” He nips lightly, as though the admission of size pains him and he has to assert some dominance. “We won’t hurt you.” Reiner glances up then, and the pain and knowledge in his eyes is almost too much for Bertolt to bear. No, they won’t hurt Jean now, but they’ll hurt him in the future, someday soon, and it will be much worse than anything they could do with their cocks and their knots.

Bertolt swallows, and when he speaks up, his voice is unexpectedly rough. “Come here.” He reaches out for Jean, and Reiner, understanding, lightly pushes him forward. Jean comes into Bertolt’s arms willingly enough, but he moves warily around Bertolt’s cock, as though he’s afraid of being impaled by it unexpectedly, and Bertolt feels a spike of anger in his gut. Does Jean really think he’s that kind of alpha, the kind that takes and takes and doesn’t care about his partner? Is he really afraid Bertolt is going to hurt him?

“Hey.” Reiner’s hand is soft on Bertolt’s face, gentle and knowing, and Bertolt blinks before looking up at Reiner. There’s knowledge and understanding in his eyes that goes beyond words, beyond pheromones, and Reiner is kind as he pushes on Bertolt’s shoulder.

Bertolt lays back, taking Jean with him. Jean yelps in surprise and starts squirming again once he’s sprawled across Bertolt’s chest, as though he’s afraid Bertolt hadn’t listened and is going to spear him in the ass. “Shhhhhh…” Bertolt rubs a hand soothingly on Jean’s lower back, and stretches up to nip at his neck. Jean shudders at the bite, and stops moving. “It’ll hurt less from this position.”

Jean pushes his hands on Bertolt’s chest and props himself up, looking down suspiciously. “How would you know?”

“He’s done it.” Reiner’s voice is a low rumble behind them, and Bertolt looks over Jean’s shoulder, noticing that Reiner has a tiny pot of the grease they use to lubricate their maneuver gear, and he’s focusing on scooping out the dark-colored grease and rubbing it over the length of his cock. Bertolt can smell the grease, cloying and metallic, and he remembers the slide of Reiner inside him, pushing against his inner walls and stretching him wide, and the unrelenting pressure of his knots when he’d shuddered and spilled himself inside. It’s enough to make Bertolt’s cock jump and twitch against Jean’s abdomen, his own knots pressing against Jean’s flat belly, and Bertolt shifts his hands to Jean’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart and exposing him to Reiner.

Jean starts to protest, opening his mouth to complain, but Bertolt growls at him and his mouth snaps shut. He looks down, his brows knit together over his eyes, worried and concerned but also wanting, panting faintly through his mouth again, and Bertolt stretches up to bite him under the chin. Jean melts down against him, wrapping both arms around Bertolt’s neck, and even pushes his ass back against his hands, towards Reiner. Reiner growls low in his throat and moves over them both, hovering over Jean’s bony shoulder, and lines himself up, the back of his knuckles brushing against Bertolt’s fingers. 

He bites down on the side of Jean’s neck, over a pulse point where the blood runs hot and close to the surface, but it’s Bertolt he’s looking at as Reiner pushes forward, sinking into Jean.

Jean jolts against Bertolt’s chest and cries out, the sound surprisingly soft and breathy, as Reiner pushes into him, and buries his face in the side of Bertolt’s neck, his arms tightening to almost a stranglehold. Bertolt lets go of one of his cheeks and strokes his hand through Jean’s hair, combing out the tangled strands with his fingers, murmuring quiet, wordless sympathies in his ear. Reiner looks slightly ashamed of himself, and slows down, pushing forward a scant fraction of an inch at a time, waiting until Jean’s shaking resides before pushing deeper.

“Fuck…” Jean mutters against Bertolt’s throat. “Fuck fuck _fuck_ …”

“Relax,” Bertolt tells him, rubbing a hand over Jean’s shoulders. “Relax, your body knows what to do, let it do it, just breathe and relax…”

Jean nods, drawing in a great, shuddering breath, and if Bertolt felt wetness on the side of his neck that hadn’t been there before, he’ll never mention it to anyone.

Reiner breathes deep above them, and Bertolt feels them both shift forward as Reiner adjusts himself. He takes his teeth off Jean’s neck, and soothes the growing bruise there with his lips, licking him like a dog, and Bertolt has a moment of envy, just imagining how Jean must taste. They wait, in mutual anticipation and unease, until Jean lifts his head up, and while his eyes are glassy, his cheeks are dry.

“Okay.” He’s trying to sound brave, Bertolt can tell, and Jean almost pulls it off; he has enough practice in being boisterous and aggressive that it comes naturally to him. Bertolt knows what to listen for, though, and he can hear the faint unease lurking behind Jean’s bold words. “Okay, I’m ready. Fuck me _hard_.”

“Jean…” Bertolt moves to touch Jean’s face, to tell him it’s okay, that they can go as slow as they want, but Reiner—beautiful, golden Reiner who has never been afraid of anything, not a day in his life—doesn’t recognize the uncertainty that Jean is trying so hard to hide, and takes what he says at face value. With a grunt, Reiner thrusts forward all at once.

Jean throws his head back and _keens_ , loud enough to wake everyone in the barracks who had started to fade into sleep, and Bertolt winces. They’re all going to answer for this tomorrow morning, and distantly, he hears some grumbling from the other bunks, phrases and snatches of conversation drifting up to him. 

“… stink is making me horny…”

“… bad enough we have to smell it, now we have to listen too?”

“… figures Kirschtein wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut…”

Bertolt can feel his cheeks burn, and even though he knows no one is watching, he wants to cringe away from what feels like countless eyes on them. That’s all he’s ever wanted, to be able to fall away into the shadows and keep everyone from looking at him, and Reiner and Jean are completely oblivious, making enough noise and throwing off enough pheromones to give a dead man an erection. In desperation, Bertolt reaches up and grabs Jean’s head, pulling him down for a messy, open-mouthed kiss, trying to muffle his yowling against his lips.

Jean’s mouth is wet and panting, and he falls into Bertolt’s kiss readily, parting his lips and trying to pull Bertolt’s tongue into his mouth. Bertolt goes with it, feeling the faintest twinge of amusement that even when he’s being sandwiched between two alphas, Jean is still trying to assert himself, and Jean sucks hungrily on his tongue, worrying it with his teeth. It’s not a good kiss, but it’s faintly reminiscent of how Reiner kisses, and Bertolt lets Jean gnaw on him, hardly feeling ashamed at all when the rough treatment makes his cock perk back to life.

Reiner rumbles above them, and Jean is suddenly gone, leaving Bertolt mouthing at the air. He opens his eyes, and Reiner has one hand under Jean’s jaw, tilting his head back, and his teeth at Jean’s throat.

“Watch it, little man,” he growls, and Bertolt cringes at the menace in Reiner’s voice, sounding to his ears like a titan’s roar. “That’s _my_ mate you’re kissing.”

 _His mate_ … the idea reverberates in Bertolt’s head, ringing in his ears and making the whole world seem a little bit brighter. It’s the first time Reiner has said anything like that, the first time they’ve danced around the issue, and it’s somehow completely appropriate that Reiner would just announce it and expect Bertolt to follow along.

“Reiner…” He reaches up, past Jean’s terrified face and rolling eyes, and cradles Reiner’s face in his hands, gently but firmly turning him away from Jean’s neck. Reiner lets go only reluctantly, and his golden eyes are burning when he looks down at Bertolt. “Of course I’m your mate, I was just quieting him down, everyone else is sleeping.” Bertolt glances at Jean, and he doesn’t look quite as afraid now, listening to everything they’re saying. He can probably smell what just hit Bertolt: the nearly overpowering bombardment of mate pheromones, pouring off Reiner and leaving Bertolt nearly breathless. “It’s okay,” Bertolt tells Reiner, and his eyes sting unexpectedly, like they’re about to betray him. Time is short, time is so very fucking short, and with Reiner as his mate, he wants all the time in the world. “It’s okay, you’re my mate, you’re the only mate I want.”

As Reiner lunges downward, catching his mouth in an aggressive, needy kiss and flattening Jean between them, Bertolt recalls a line of poetry his mother used to read him, back in the village when he thought the world was still a good place.

_Had we but world enough, and time…_

Jean squirms between them, making indignant sounds, and when Reiner picks himself back up, Bertolt sees that Jean has gotten over his fright. If anything, he looks a bit like a wet cat, irritated and put out, and as soon as he has enough room, Jean pushes his hips back against Reiner, looking pointedly over his shoulder at him. “Come _on_ …”

Reiner laughs, the sound low and rumbling, and needs no further encouragement; he starts thrusting rapidly, setting up a bruising, no-nonsense rhythm that Bertolt remembers well, and he has to push the flats of his hands down on Jean’s hips to keep him from getting knocked up into his face. Jean grunts each time Reiner slams into him, wincing at first and then starting to ride the thrusts, bracing his hands on Bertolt’s shoulders and pushing back, and Bertolt watches Reiner’s face as he fucks the hell out of Jean.

It doesn’t take long; after so much build up, Reiner must be aching for release, and when he slams forward a final time and groans, loud and unashamed, clearly knotting, Bertolt shudders and nearly comes himself, just from watching the lines of Reiner’s face contort and relax as he rocks through his release. Jean makes a strangled sound between them, and collapses forward, landing on Bertolt’s shoulder. Instinctually, Bertolt lifts his hand and smoothes it over the back of Jean’s head, combing it through the damp spikes of his hair, and uses the other to touch Reiner’s cheek. Reiner’s eyes fly open at the touch, and he turns to kiss Bertolt’s palm, the best he can do while still supporting his weight with both arms.

Jean whines into Bertolt’s ear, wordless, and shifts his hips back and forth. “He’s knotted,” he whispers in Bertolt’s ear. “Fuck, it’s _huge_ …”

“Does it hurt?” Bertolt is genuinely curious, and Reiner opens one eye to look down at them.

Jean moves a little more, then shakes his head. “No. Feels… feels pretty good.” He moves again, and whatever he did, he hit the right spot; he groans loudly in Bertolt’s ear, and Bertolt feels Jean’s cock move against his belly, leaking precome all over him and tangling the hair leading down from his navel.

“Bertolt’s’ll feel better.” Reiner leans down and kisses the back of Jean’s neck, panting openly through his mouth. “His is even _bigger_.”

Jean makes a desperate, hungry sound at that, and his entire body shudders as he lets his breath out. Bertolt can smell him, and he’s releasing wave after wave of pheromones, more powerful than anything he’s ever smelled before, pheromones that put images in his head of holding Jean down and knotting him again and again, fucking him until he’s raw and sore and pleading for a break, and then knotting him one more time after that, because Bertolt is an alpha and that’s what alphas do to omegas who question them.

Someone is growling—deep, rippling sounds, domineering and harsh—and Bertolt hardly even realizes they’re coming from his own throat. He grabs the back of Jean’s head and pulls him down, snuffling at Jean’s neck until he finds a scent gland and then biting down on it, and while Jean yelps and scrabbles at his chest with both hands, he thinks he can _taste_ the pheromones just as well as he can smell them. Reiner groans above them, his hands braced on Jean’s narrow hips, and from over Jean’s shoulder, Bertolt can see him duck low and lick a long, smooth stripe up Jean’s spine.

It’s Jean that lets him know when Reiner’s knot has gone down, Jean who tries to sit up and position himself over Bertolt’s crotch, pushing against Reiner to get him out of the way. Reiner moves back with a quiet grumble, but stays close to Jean’s back, his arms still wrapped around him possessively. Bertolt grips Jean’s thigh with one hand, his long, tan fingers spreading over Jean’s pale flesh like a ravenous spider, and uses the other to grip the base of his cock, positioning it up, bumping the head of it against the back of Jean’s leg. The feeling of a thick, heavy cock touching his legs drives Jean into near hysterics, his eyes wide and starry as he fights against Reiner’s firm grasp and gets himself lined up.

He goes down all at once, taking Bertolt’s entire cock in one smooth thrust, and Bertolt yelps out loud as he’s sheathed in Jean’s tight heat, his hand squeezing down on Jean’s thigh. Jean slams down onto Bertolt’s lap with a thick squelching sound, his head thrown back and his throat exposed, and Reiner darts in immediately, biting down on Jean’s scent gland and releasing a flood of pheromones and endorphins. Before Bertolt can gather himself enough to do anything, Jean starts riding him, rolling his hips back and forth and riding Bertolt’s cock, sliding back and forth on it easily, and Bertolt realizes that Jean’s been lubricated with Reiner’s come, that it’s spunk that’s making this ride so easy.

With a sudden growl, he surges forward, sitting up and pushing Reiner away. Surprised, Reiner falls back, and Bertolt’s teeth find the spot on Jean’s neck where Reiner had just been biting. He worries the small, hard lump with his teeth, tasting pheromones under his tongue, and Jean clings to his shoulders with both hands and keeps frantically pumping his hips, trying clumsily to stimulate Bertolt into knotting him.

Reiner moves around behind them, and for a moment, Bertolt forgets about him. He gets his long legs underneath him, sitting on his knees and holding Jean’s ass with both hands, and his fingers get sticky as each desperate thrust forces more come out of Jean and sends it dripping down his hands. Then Reiner reaches around Bertolt and links his arms around his waist, biting at the back of Bertolt’s neck, the nape, the titan’s only weak spot, and Bertolt comes so explosively that his vision blacks out for a moment.

When the world swims back into focus, Jean is collapsed over Bertolt’s shoulders, panting and shuddering, and Bertolt can feel his knots hardening, pushing against the confines of Jean’s body, stretching him out, widening him, and he knows it will be easier for Reiner to push in for a second round. Reiner is growling against Bertolt’s spine, his arms iron bands around Bertolt’s middle, and Bertolt can feel Reiner’s erection poking against his bare butt cheek. It feels like his knots are just going to keep going, going to grow until they’re actively painful like they did before, but then Jean’s body clamps down on them, squeezes them back into a reasonable size, and Bertolt gasps as he feels another little drool of come shoot out of him.

Reiner laughs quietly in his ear. “He just squeezed you, didn’t he?”

Bertolt nods, unable to find his voice, and turns his head towards Reiner. They kiss, aggressive and full of teeth—Reiner bites his tongue so hard it breaks the skin and bleeds, and when it heals, Bertolt blows the steam into Reiner’s mouth—and Bertolt eventually feels Jean lift his head and bite tentatively at his collarbone. Some alphas would try and snap an omega’s neck for that kind of audacity, but Bertolt doesn’t care; it wouldn’t be Jean if he wasn’t trying to assert himself, and he lifts one hand from Jean’s ass to stroke it down his back, over his sweat-damp skin, and Jean bites him a little harder.

Bertolt’s knots start to go down, and he eases both himself and Jean down onto the bunk, laying on their sides and facing each other. Reiner moves to Jean’s back, eagerly waiting for his turn, and Bertolt feels him poking at Jean’s ass with the head of his cock, getting himself lined up and ready to go. For a moment, the idea of both of them in Jean dances through Bertolt’s head, their cocks squeezed with exquisite tightness, their knots pressed flushed against each other, and he almost knots again himself.

The moment Bertolt slides free, Reiner thrusts back in, making Jean yelp and pant, and Bertolt lays back on his side to watch their coupling.

Evening bleeds into night; Bertolt notices the stars coming out, through the cracks in the barrack’s ceiling, and he hears everyone around them drift off to sleep, snores starting to drift up to them. They start to slow down, taking longer between each knotting, spending more time paying attention to each other, to Jean. Jean’s neck and shoulders look like a war zone, bitten black and blue, and his narrow eyes are shadowed and exhausted, but he keeps reaching out for them, keeps letting off slow, intoxicating waves of pheromones, and so they keep knotting. Bertolt has lost track, but his cock feels sore and chafed, and his erections come slower and slower, his knots smaller each time. The insides of Jean’s thighs are a mess, sticky and dripping with white fluid, and Bertolt can hardly imagine what his ass must feel like, but Jean has yet to turn either of them down. First heats for omegas must be pure misery, if it’s taken this long to wear away all his cramps.

Bertolt watches Reiner push into Jean, slow and dreamy, nothing like the hard pounding from before, and he swears that Jean is half asleep, his arm tucked under his head and his eyes closed, his face relaxed and slack. He thinks he could go again—he’s flying at half mast, as they say, and his knots are almost nonexistent at the base of his dick—but he could also roll over and go to sleep. He reaches out instead and touches Jean’s face, and Jean frowns and bats at his hand, muttering something indecipherable and sleepy.

Bertolt smiles faintly, amused, and instead trails his hand down Jean’s chest. Jean is tacky and grimy, coated with sweat and come from the three of them—about every third coupling or so, Jean would blow his load across his belly, and Bertolt had only licked it off the first two or so times—and Bertolt sits up a little, finding a discarded shirt to wipe some of the mess off him before they sleep. Shirt in hand, he wipes it down Jean’s chest, narrow but still hard with muscle, over the sparse hair on his chest and down to the coarser, heavier hair running down from his navel, gently mopping up all the mingled come and sweat.

He pauses when he gets to Jean’s abdomen, frowning a little. Something is different here, something that hadn’t been this way before, and Bertolt leans closer. Jean smells like sex, exhaustion, Reiner, and pheromones. It’s a heady perfume, and Bertolt feels his cock give a twitch of interest, but that’s not what has changed. He traces his hand over Jean’s belly, and the soft curve of it hits him like a lightning bolt to his groin: Jean hadn’t been this shape before. None of them are, no one in the barracks carries any extra weight on their frames, and Jean’s abdomen, formerly flat and almost concave, is bowing out gently now, transformed into a sloping, pregnant curve.

Once, omegas had been able to carry and bear young, regardless of sex, but that had been lost generations ago. Bertolt wishes someone had told his dick that, because the feel of Jean’s slightly rounded belly awakens things in him that he didn’t know were there, slumbering just under his consciousness. A wave of protectiveness rages through him, fierce and torrential, unstoppable, and he snarls at Reiner, his lips curling back from his teeth.

The atmosphere in the barracks changes in an instant; all the sounds of sleeping boys switch off, replaced by near silent, taunt wakefulness all around them. Jean’s eyes fly open, and he looks confused, glancing down at Bertolt’s hand on his belly and then up at Bertolt’s face, his lips forming around a question. Before he has time to vocalize it, Bertolt has surged forward, wrapping both arms around Jean and yanking him away from Reiner and across the bunk. He pushes Jean up against the wall and turns, crouching low in front of him, glaring at Reiner and growling under his breath.

Reiner sits up, tension wrought through his shoulders, his face closed off. He hadn’t knotted Jean, thanks the gods, although his cock is still erect and dripping between his legs, and he gathers his legs underneath him, hulking and staring at Bertolt.

“Bertl, what the hell?” He keeps his voice pitched low, as though everyone else in the barracks weren’t awake and listening.

Bertolt snarls at him, showing all his teeth. _Protection_ , he needs to protect Jean, he needs to protect their young… except there are no young, there never will be, and Bertolt’s snarls die as though someone had cut his throat. He blinks, and glances back over his shoulder at Jean. Jean stares back at him, completely flummoxed and not understanding, and Bertolt’s eyes drop to his distended abdomen. Jean looks down at himself, realizing, and pokes gingerly at his belly, wincing faintly as his fingers press down into roundness that hadn't been there before.

“Oh, _shit_ …” Jean’s eyes widen with understanding, his lip curling in disgust, and he meets Bertolt’s eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I’m _not_ pregnant, it’s just that you fuckers came too much, you godsdamn _filled_ me, and…”

Reiner’s arm snakes over Bertolt’s shoulder, clapping his hand down on Jean’s mouth. Bertolt feels himself flush; Jean is constitutionally unable to speak in anything that’s less than a bragging shout, and the whole barracks now knows what’s going on. “Shhhhh,” Reiner whispers, resting his chin on Bertolt’s shoulder as though Bertolt had never growled at him and thrown him aside. “Jean…” His voice is raspy, thick with lust, and Bertolt feels Reiner’s cock poke him in the small of the back. “Jean, do you have any idea how hot that is?”

Jean looks down at himself again, disbelieving, and cups his hands around his belly. Bertolt realizes he’s drooling, and swallows noisily. “I’m _fat_ ,” Jean tells them, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Bertolt wonders if there’s something in his past that he’s not telling them, something deep and hidden that he keeps to himself, something that he might only share with Marco. 

“You’re _hot_ ,” Reiner tells him, in the tone he uses when he’s in no mood to argue, and Jean relents, although he clearly doesn’t believe them. Satisfied that Jean is done arguing, Reiner nips at Bertolt’s shoulder, then pushes him forward. “Go on. I’ll guard you.”

Bertolt looks behind him, surprised, but Reiner has already taken up residence on the edge of the bunk, sitting crosslegged with his back to the wall, where he can see Bertolt and Jean and watch the rest of the barracks at the same time.

“Reiner?” A voice floats up to them, high and soft. Armin. Tiny, inoffensive Armin, Armin who Reiner could pick up with one arm and carry away, Armin who is most assuredly a beta and no threat at all. “Is everything okay up there?”

“Everything’s fine.” Reiner’s tone is reassuring, measured. “I wouldn’t come up here if I were you, though.”

There’s a pause, and Bertolt can imagine the line between Armin’s eyes as he thinks that over, the same line that appears when he’s pondering his next move in chess. “Jean?”

“It’s fine.” Jean’s voice sounds half-strangled, and he clears it violently, even as he’s reaching forward and pulling Bertolt close to him, hormones coming off him in slow, sleepy waves. “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Armin must accept that explanation, because he doesn’t say anything else, and Bertolt can hear people shifting behind him, grumpy boys getting comfortable to snatch a few more hours of rest. All his attention is on Jean, though, and he takes him into his arms, his touch tender and more gentle than before.

Jean rolls his eyes at him. “I’m not going to _break_ , shit.”

“It’s different,” Bertolt admit, slightly shamefaced, but that doesn’t stop him from running his hands over Jean’s belly, feeling its curve and imagining that there really are pups under there, that he and Reiner could have made something so magical together, that he and Reiner will live long enough to ever see a child with Bertolt’s eyes, or Reiner’s smile.

Jean must see something on Bertolt’s face, something that stops the acidic, biting comments on his tongue, and when he touches Bertolt, his hands are roughly gentle, the kind of awkward, aggressive affection Jean usually reserves for Marco and Marco alone. “Okay, fine, act out your weird pregnancy fantasy or whatever. Just know that I’m going to shit it all out tomorrow morning.”

Bertolt snorts surprised laughter, and hides the sound in Jean’s shoulder. Oh, Jean, such a way with words. He hears Reiner chuckling behind them, still standing guard, and Bertolt arranges Jean so he’s on his hands and knees, so Reiner can watch them and so Bertolt can watch Reiner. Jean, being Jean, immediately drops down onto his arms, his ass up in the air, but that’s fine. Bertolt lines himself up and sinks in with a groan, his hands on Jean’s hips, and there’s nothing to stop his passage, no resistance or residual tightness. Jean is slick and stretched wide and lubricated with all the orgasms from before, and Bertolt is able to slide all the way inside him, pressing in until his testicles touch Jean’s and come dribbles out of Jean’s ass onto them.

It’s slower than before, dreamier, like everything is happening underwater, and across the bunk, Bertolt sees Reiner reach down and start stroking himself, watching the two of them with hungry, half-lidded eyes. Bertolt reaches down and strokes one hand over the curve of Jean’s stomach, and he watches as Reiner bites his lip, holding back a moan, and speeds up his hand.

Bertolt touches Jean’s stomach and watches Reiner’s hand, the way it disappears over the dark red, glistening wet of his cock, and when he knots Jean, Reiner isn’t far behind, moaning softly and splattering his own hand with white liquid. Jean groans under Bertolt, but his knots are small this time, hardly larger than fresh peas, and he pulls out after he’s done, collapsing onto his side and pulling Jean with him. Jean moves willingly, fucked and knotted into exhaustion, all limp limbs and grumbling protests, but he lets Bertolt wrap his arms around him and hold him to his chest, and when Bertolt strokes a hand over his belly, Jean only bats it away the first time before giving up with a sigh.

Reiner comes to join them, lowering himself at Jean’s front, and his legs are long enough to wrap around both Jean and Bertolt. He links his fingers with Bertolt’s, over Jean’s distended abdomen, and the way he sighs sounds wistful and a little watery to Bertolt’s ears. It’s something they’ll have to talk about tomorrow, he and Reiner, talking about the things that have been and will be, and quietly mourning everything they’ll never have. Bertolt sighs too, squeezing Reiner’s hand, and closes his eyes. He drifts off quickly, far faster than usual, content for a time in the warm cocoon of Jean and Reiner’s scents and warmth.

~*~

They awake to the usual noise and bustle of the barracks waking up, boys stretching and yawning and shouting at each other as they arise, and Bertolt is surprised to find that he stayed in the same position all night, that he hadn’t moved across the bunk or sprawled over either of them. He allows himself the tiny luxury of watching Reiner sleep, watching his eyes move behind his thin, fragile eyelids, the rest of his face hidden behind Jean’s wild, mussed hair.

“Excuse me?”

Marco. He must be standing just below them, looking up at the bunk, and though he sounds nervous, there’s also a steely determination to his voice that Bertolt has to admire. He has no resolve of his own, but he admires it in others.

“Excuse me, can I have Jean back now, please?”

Reiner’s eyes open at that, and he blinks lazily at Bertolt for a moment before smiling. He sits up, a blanket Bertolt doesn’t remember anyone putting over them falling off his chest and pooling at his waist, and looks over the edge of the bunk. “You’re awfully confident that his heat is over.”

“I can smell it. I’d like him back now.”

From under Bertolt’s arm, Jean groans and flails impotently, trying to get up. Bertolt lets him go—after one last, lingering touch to his stomach—and Jean flops towards the edge of the bunk, leaning over the edge next to Reiner. “For fuck’s sake, Marco, I’m not a damn kid!”

There’s the sound of rustling below them, and Marco doesn’t sound shamed by Jean’s acerbic words at all. “I brought you a robe. C’mon, everyone else is going to use all the hot water if you don’t hurry.”

Jean looks at Reiner, then back over his shoulder at Bertolt. There’s something calculating in his eyes, like he’s thinking a little too hard about something, before he turns back to Marco. “Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” And just like that, he’s gone, spilling over the edge of the bunk into the arms waiting for him below, and Bertolt realizes that Jean had completely trusted that Marco would catch him.

Reiner watches them go for a moment, then shakes his head and moves back to Bertolt, laying down heavily beside him. Bertolt reaches for him, and Reiner pulls him close, tucking Bertolt’s head into his shoulder and running a hand down between his shoulder blades.

“My mate?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically shy and uncertain, and Bertolt swallows the lump in his throat before nodding, scrubbing his face up and down along Reiner’s chest.

“My mate,” he confirms, and he and Reiner lay together in the thin morning sunlight, holding each other as the rest of the world moves around them, stealing a single moment of happiness against what is to come.


End file.
